


Laundry Day

by coveredbyroses



Series: 2019 SPN Kink Bingo [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic, F/M, Smut, sex on a washing machine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-17
Updated: 2019-05-17
Packaged: 2020-03-06 21:48:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18859765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredbyroses/pseuds/coveredbyroses
Summary: It’s storming out, but there are chores to be done. Oh, and you and Dean have the bunker to yourselves.





	Laundry Day

It’s raining out, the heavy pour of it heard even underneath cement, brick, and earth. Sam’s out with Jack, something about being cooped up for too long. You get it. With all it’s securities and benefits, the underground fortress  _can_  be cold, suffocating, and maddeningly boring.

Dean’s in the garage, pampering his darling beast of a car, leaving you with the laundry and all the other never-ending chores. Every inch of the bunker’s floors have been swept, mopped, and waxed - a feat that had taken the entirety of your morning. It’s time for a break.

You’re sitting criss-crossed on the washing machine, in your bleach-splotched t-shirt and gray sweats, bare feet tucked under your thighs, book in hand. It’s so good to be shrouded in quiet for a change, just the steady, rocking whir of the washer underneath the wash of rain.

The rasp of heavy boots crack into your concentration, and you look up just in time to see Dean; hair shower-drenched, black t-shirt clinging to just the right places. Your mouth goes a little dry.

“Been lookin’ for you,” he rumbles, just a hint of mischief sparking across jade eyes.

“Yeah?” you toss back, eyes dropping back to the page you’d abandoned.

He looms in closer, until his thighs barely brush against the rumbling machine, and pulls the book away - with zero resistance from you, and lets it thunk to the floor. “Yeah.”

You look up at him; at the thick fan of his lashes, at the dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose and cheeks. He smells like spice. “Well. Ya found me.”

“I did…” His hands close around your hips, thumbs pressing little circles through the faded cotton of your tee. He dips down, slots his mouth against yours, and kisses you slow and easy. Your hands curve around the back of his head, shorn hair velvety soft against your palms.

You sigh into his mouth as his tongue slicks over yours, and then his hands fall to the creases of your bent knees, tugging at your calves, coaxing them to hook around his hips.

Heat builds in your belly and darkens your cheeks as Dean keeps licking into you, and it makes you tighten your thighs and roll up and against him. He grunts low, starts to play with the waistband of your sweats, then snakes an arm around you, hard fingertips pressing into you while the other pulls at the drawstrings before sneaking under underneath-

“Oh…” You break away from wet heat of his mouth at the warm rasp of fingers over your panties, and it makes you shudder with electric heat, makes your fingers curl until your nails are raking over his scalp. He shivers.

He’s rubbing you through the cotton now, strokes a firm, hot pressure. “Fuck,” you whimper, shifting and squirming against the rumbling appliance.

“I could make ya come right here,” Dean rasps, gets his thumb centered on your clit. “I could get you soaked and shakin’ with all your clothes still on…”

“You already are, damnit,” you croak, hands dropping to the warmth of his broad shoulders. He gets his mouth down to your neck, chuckles against the slope of it, then drags the crotch of your panties to the side so he can brush a finger over the damp soft of your folds.

 _“Mmmfuck,”_ you whisper, throat tightening with the thick pleasure as he dips into the hot slick of your cunt.

“That didn’t take long.” You can feel the smile against your skin, can hear it in his voice. His swirling a finger around, just playing with the wetness gathered there-

“If you don’t fuck me, I’m gonna scream,” you grit, jaw clamped tight.

“Oh,” Dean says, light, then  _shoves_  two thick fingers inside, all the way to the last knuckle. “You’re gonna scream either way.”

You make a hushed, broken little cry, dig the heels of your feet into his ass to pull him closer.  _“Fuck, please.”_

Dean gets a fist into the unbrushed mess of your hair, tugs back sharply to angle your face up to his, and then starts to pump his fingers. You hump your hips against his hand, desperate to meet the thrusts, your own fingers curling into the black cotton clinging to his shoulders. He’s slicking in deep, much deeper than you ever could, rubbing and stroking at that aching depth. His thumb’s still working over your clit, applying just enough pressure to keep the heat swirling. Your belly tenses and hardens, the pleasure cresting and swelling hot. You look down, see the lump of his fist buried and twisting in your pants, and it somehow makes everything so much hotter.

He pulls his fingers free with a wet sound, then shifts back so he can unfasten his belt. You push your own pants, panties too, down your legs, then kick them to floor so you can spread yourself wide. He releases your hair so both hands can grip you behind the knees, and pulls you so your ass is at the edge of the washer. You smooth your hands across his back, pressing into the warm dip between his shoulder blades as you lock your ankles just above his ass.

A hand kneads your thigh; soft, soothing little compresses as he pumps himself. You bite your lip when he starts to drag the slick head up and down the wet seam of your folds, your clit sparking back to life every time he rubs against it. He gets an arm around your waist, fingers slipping up underneath you shirt, denting into the skin there, and then he pushes in-

Your lashes flutter, eyes rolling back into the shadow of your skull as he fills the hollow ache. He sighs shaky, gets both hands on your thighs as he starts to thrust. You tighten your arms around him, feel the way the muscles tense and relax under your palms, and huff out choked little breaths against his chest.

You can hear the wet sounds as he fucks in and out, and the rocking vibrations of the washing machine quake right up into your cunt, makes your clit throb. You think he feels it too, because he’s dipped his chin, grunts out these deep, teeth-gritted sounds into your ear.

“G-god,” you gasp, and it earns you a sharper thrust, hard enough for his pelvic bone to snap into your clit. You clench. He leans in, hitches himself deeper so that he’s more grinding than thrusting, and fuck, the way his lower abdomen is rubbing over and over where you’re hot and pulsing has your vision melting until all you see is a blur of color and movement.

You can still hear the heavy downpour of the storm outside, can hear the low rumble of thunder growling over the sounds of wet slapping skin, breathy moans, and the whirring washer.

It feels good, feels like Heaven, the way he’s punching in so deep, bumping into that sweet spot every time his hips meet yours.

Sweat start to dampen his shirt, warm and tacky under your hands, and you’re building up your own sheen across your hairline and under the band of your bra. You want to tear your shirt off, but you can’t let go, not with the way he’s plastered so deliciously around and against you; trapped inside a cage of slippery heat.

You can feel the rushing heat of your orgasm with every heavy rock of his hips, with every white-hot pulse of your clit. He’s driving in so fast now, fucking wildly, and you’ve never been so goddamned glad to have Sam and Jack out of the bunker.

“Please, Dean,  _please-_ ” you choke, lust-dumb and desperate. “Baby, please - fuck!” He leans in, angle shifting, and - oh god-

You lock down and around him, shuddering hard as the fire bursts in molten waves. You’re keening behind your teeth into the damp heat of his chest, jaw clenched tight, fingernails carving their marks into his back.

He keeps fucking you through it all - hot, panting breath dewing up the curve of your neck. It’s almost too much, the way he jabs away at the rawness, but you’re so wet and shivery-hot that it prolongs the rolling pleasure. He’s fucking so quick and hard, thighs bouncing against the washer with the ways he’s folded in on you, hollow bangs resounding through the balmy space of the tucked away little room.

Thunder booms when Dean comes, and you laugh dry and gaspy at the impossible timing of it. Dean laughs too, breathless and muffled against the slick of your neck.

“So,” he says after a pause, voice gruff. “Laundry day, huh?”

“Mmm,” you manage dragging your hands down the hard plane of his back to grip the hem of his tee. You’re slow to peel the damp fabric up and and off, then move to your own shirt.

“Looks like I have another load.”


End file.
